


Bridgewater

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Mycroft Holmes, Healing, Impostor Syndrome, M/M, Minor Character Death, Platonic Love, Professor & Student Friendship, Self Confidence Issues, Young Mycroft, mentor, overcoming self-doubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:27:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29941698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: As a first-year undergraduate at Cambridge, Mycroft Holmes struggles badly to accept that he belongs. Though his grades so far have been high, it's surely just a matter of time before he exposes himself as a fraud.A supportive tutor then takes Mycroft under his wing, changing the course of his life forever.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 82





	Bridgewater

If you seek his monument, look around you.  
 _Epitaph of Sir Christopher Wren - St. Paul's, London_

***

Mycroft remembers the desk as if he sat there only yesterday: the textbooks, the journals and the dusty African violet; Professor Bridgewater's coffee cup with its George Bernard Shaw quote _("Democracy is a device that ensures we shall be governed no better than we deserve");_ and, in the centre of it all, turned upwards for his unbelieving eyes, the essay in his fearful and crowded eighteen-year-old handwriting, the grade circled at the top in green, the textbook Professor Bridgewater then laid open across it.

His tutor tapped at the top of the right-hand page. 

Obedient, Mycroft leaned forwards and read.

_Impostor syndrome is a psychological phenomenon often noted in high-achieving individuals. It denotes an inability to internalise one's own achievements, and is characterised by fears that one shall shortly be exposed as a 'fraud', contrary to external evidence of competence._

_Common indications include perfectionism, overwork, discounting of praise, a persistent fear of failure, and assignment of success to luck or deception._

As Mycroft finished reading, his heart thudded with a cold and unwilling recognition. 

Professor Bridgewater leant back against the edge of his desk.

"Thoughts?" he said.

Mycroft looked up into Bridgewater's calm hazel gaze, endlessly gentle behind the gold-rimmed rectangular frames of his glasses.

Well aware he'd just been handed his own soul in two paragraphs, Mycroft swallowed.

"Some of this seems familiar," he admitted. "I'm... not sure it's _entirely_ applicable."

"Mycroft," Bridgewater said, gently. Mycroft fell silent at once. "I just returned to you the highest grade I've ever given to a first-year of this college. I've never seen a face fall so quickly. I've listened to your excuses. If you can, I'd now like you to listen to me."

Mycroft listened, his shoulders fallen, his heart beating hard. 

"You are a very bright young man," Bridgewater said. Mycroft's throat contracted. He felt his skin prickle. It was a visceral reaction, as if his entire being was trying to repel the words like water. "I believe we can expect great things from you… _if,"_ Bridgewater added with sudden stress, "you can overcome these self-esteem issues. Otherwise, Mycroft, I fear dreadfully that your gifts will be wasted."

Mycroft's soul shrank back from his bones. It was the one thing he feared more than discovery: failure. He'd been waiting for it to fall upon him ever since he'd arrived at university. Every essay, every tutorial, every question posed to him by a lecturer, he felt that awful abyss gape open ready to swallow him whole. Somehow he'd scraped by so far. He often wondered if his professors were being kind to him, gentling the shy and uncertain young man who collected high marks like his fellow students collected venereal diseases. 

He gazed up at Bridgewater, lost.

"What is it I should do?" he said.

Bridgewater reached for his coffee cup.

"Be here every Monday at nine," he said. "Let's see if we can't turn things around."

***

Over the next few weeks, Mycroft made his way to Bridgewater's office each Monday—and spent every evening feeling like a fool. He was wasting Bridgewater's time and he knew it. Who the hell did he think he was? He didn't _have_ Impostor Syndrome. He wasn't a high-achiever crippled by doubt. He was, in fact, the very opposite. He was a moron who, through low-cunning and pomposity, had now somehow deceived a university professor into believing he was a troubled genius. Bridgewater would figure it out any second. Inevitable disaster was imminent, and Mycroft knew it.

All the same, he kept turning up.

He didn't understand why. Only when he looked back, many years later, did he realise he'd trusted Bridgewater more than himself. He liked having the man's undivided attention for those two long hours every Monday; it was something he'd never had. He liked the fragile possibility that it was all true, that he was _worth_ the effort—that Bridgewater could see something he couldn't and was willing to commit his precious time to bringing it out.

Bridgewater made him keep a journal, three pages each morning to watch his own mind at work. He assigned Mycroft to read biographies of political figures who'd failed on their way to success, and transcribe parts in his own hand. He had Mycroft keep a file of the compliments he received, and to read it aloud, nightly, until he could do so without cringing. 

In week six, he sat Mycroft on his couch with paper, a pen and a coffee in the George Bernard Shaw mug, and asked him to list all the things he was _actually_ terrible at: singing; driving a submarine; brain surgery—and then, as they laughed together, he coaxed the pen back into Mycroft's hand and made him write out the other side. _Strengths: logical thinking; analysis of arguments; deductive reasoning; capacity for hard work._

It was a shorter, more meaningful list, but it seemed like one he was truly permitted to make.

So he could not operate a submarine. It was a fact.

But it was also a fact that he could strip apart a public policy document in seconds; that he remembered legal procedures after hearing them only once; and that he could process facts and figures like a machine. 

The weeks wore on, and Mycroft realised it was helping. He could _feel_ it helping, feel it lifting his shoulders, lifting his head. The grades were less of a shock. They didn't make his insides coil with guilt anymore. 

"Tell me," Bridgewater said with a grin, as a bright-eyed Mycroft arrived for their tenth session.

"A high first," Mycroft admitted. He felt the colour rise in his face. "International Conflict. My mid-course examination. I... believe it went rather well."

"Mycroft…" Bridgewater's eyes burned with pride. "Excellent, young man. _Excellent."_

***

Two years later, on the day that final exam results were announced, Mycroft found a note in his pigeonhole at the porter's lodge.

_Come see me if you've time. Don't let me cut into celebrations. Bridgewater._

Mycroft headed to his office at once.

"I have something for you," Bridgewater said, beaming. Mycroft had finished with the highest grade the department had ever seen. His name was to go on a plaque in the dining hall. It was still a little unfathomable.

Bridgewater handed him an umbrella: black, sleek, matched to his height. 

"To remind you," Bridgewater said, "that into every life, a little rain must fall." 

He'd had it engraved. _To Mycroft, from Professor Bridgewater. With enormous pleasure at your well-earned achievements._

He hugged Mycroft tightly in the door of his office.

"I am inordinately proud of you," he murmured. "I hope you never forget your own capacity. I'll be following your career with great interest, Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft had been unable to speak. 

It was his keenest, most desperate regret: not speaking in that moment. Not telling the man what he'd done.

He hoped Bridgewater had known, all the same.

"Think of me from time to time, will you?" Bridgewater said. He surveyed Mycroft at arm's length for a final moment, his eyes shining. "Now off you go, young man. Walk away from me into that future you've earned. Let me watch you as you go."

***

It's Anthea who spots the obituary.

"I'm very sorry, sir," she says, passing him the folded newspaper. They're on their way back from the summit in Beijing where Mycroft acted as the UK's chief negotiator. Against all odds, the deal has gone through. It will change the political landscape for a generation.

_Professor R. Bridgewater, 70, died peacefully at his home on 7th March in Cambridge. He was a fellow of Trinity College and is survived by a sister, Katherine.  
His funeral will be held on 14th March at St Andrew the Great Church. _

"Sir?" Anthea says, her voice tentative.

Mycroft says nothing for some time, gazing down at the small, simple paragraph.

"Rearrange my diary, will you?" he says. He hesitates. "I'll handle the flowers."

***

A wreath: white roses, chrysanthemums, African violets. The card is handwritten, not printed. 

It takes Mycroft eight attempts to get it right.

_Professor,_   
_If I seek your monument..._   
_Thank you for all that you gave me._   
_M._


End file.
